The modest Virtue shuns the Croud,
And lives, like Vestals, in a Cell;
In Cities 'twill not be allow'd,
Nor takes delight in Courts to dwell;
'Tis Nonsense with the Man of Wit;
And ev'n a Scandal to the Great:
For all the Young, and Fair, unfit;
And scorn'd by wiser Fops of State.
A Virtue, yet was never known
To the false Trader, or the falser Gown.
And (Damon) tho' thy noble Blood
Be most illustrious, and refin'd;
Tho' ev'ry Grace and ev'ry Good
Adorn thy Person and thy Mind:
Yet, if this Virtue shine not there,
This God-like Virtue, which alone,
Wert thou less witty, brave, or fair,
Wou'd for all these, less priz'd, atone;
My tender Folly I'd controul,
And scorn the Conquest of thy Soul.
EIGHT o'CLOCK.
Impatient Demands.
After you have sufficiently recollected your self of all the past Actions of the Day, call your Page into your Cabinet, or him whom you trusted with your last Letter to me; where you ought to enquire of him a thousand things, and all of me. Ask impatiently, and be angry if he answers not your Curiosity soon enough: Think that he has a dreaming in his Voice, in these moments more than at other times; and reproach him with Dulness: For 'tis most certain that when one loves tenderly, we would know in a minute, what cannot be related in an hour. Ask him, How I did? How I receiv'd his Letter? And if he examined the Air of my Face, when I took it? If I blush'd or looked pale? If my Hand trembled, or I spoke to him with short interrupting Sighs? If I asked him any Questions about you, while I was opening the Seal? Or if I could not well speak, and was silent? If I read it attentively, and with Joy? And all this, before you open the Answer I have sent you by him: which, because you are impatient to read, you, with the more haste and earnestness, demand all you expect from him; and that you may the better know what Humour I was in, when I writ that to you: For, Oh! a Lover has a thousand little Fears, and Dreads, he knows not why. In fine, make him recount to you all that past, while he was with me; and then you ought to read that which I have sent, that you may inform your self of all that passes in my Heart: for you may assure your self, all that I say to you that way proceeds from thence.
The Assurance.
How shall a Lover come to know,
Whether he's belov'd or no?
What dear things must she impart,
To assure him of her Heart?
Is it when her Blushes rise;
And she languish in her Eyes;
Tremble when he does approach;
Look pale, and faint at ev'ry Touch?
Is it, when a thousand ways
She does his Wit and Beauty praise;
Or she venture to explain,
In less moving Words, a Pain;
Tho' so indiscreet she grows,
To confirm it with her Vows?
These some short-liv'd Passion moves,
While the Object's by, she loves;
While the gay and sudden Fire
Kindles by some fond Desire:
And a Coldness will ensue,
When the Lover's out of view.
Then she reflects with Scandal o'er
The easy Scene that past before:
Then, with Blushes, would recal
The unconsid'ring Criminal;
In which a thousand Faults she'll find,
And chide the Errors of her Mind.
Such fickle weight is found in Words,
As no substantial Faith affords:
Deceiv'd and baffl'd all may be,
Who trust that frail Security.
But a well-digested Flame,
That will always be the same;
And that does from Merit grow,
Establish'd by our Reason too;
By a better way will prove,
'Tis th' unerring Fire of Love.
Lasting Records it will give:
And, that all she says may live;
Sacred and authentick stand,
Her Heart confirms it by her Hand.
If this, a Maid, well born, allow;
Damon, believe her just and true.